


The Bad Mother

by ModernWizard



Series: The Demon's Daughter [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale the magician, Birthday Party, Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley the snake, Gen, Genderfluid Crowley, Heck the witch, Nanny the snake, Other, Rudy the au pair, Trans Warlock, Trans Warlock Dowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-07-19 15:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernWizard/pseuds/ModernWizard
Summary: [In which Heck is 11.] Crowley and Aziraphale are staking out Heck's (she's not going by Warlock anymore) eleventh birthday. They think she's the Antichrist, so they're waiting for her forecast hellhound to appear and be named, thus inaugurating the End of Days. Crowley watches Aziraphale's birthday entertainment, a magic show, for a while, then realizes that Heck's not in the audience. He goes looking for her. After a run-in with Rudy, Heck's au pair, Crowley finds Heck. As the not-yet-witch talks to the demon and confides what she feels for her Nanny, the demon gets all shaken up, feelings wise, form wise, and gender wise.





	1. Author's Note

We, the author (who are referring to ourselves in the first person plural because we’re just that splendiferous), now bring to you another tale from the life of Hecate Frances Ashtoreth Dowling. You may have heard her referred to as _dear heart_ (if you’re talking to Aziraphale), _kid_ (if you’re talking to Crowley), or _my dear damnable daughter_ (if you’re talking to Nanny). 

(If you’re talking to them, chances are that you have probably heard this story, in which case, why are you reading it again? —What’s that? Oh, you flatter us! How you do go on! Well, we must admit that it is indeed a compelling drama of crystalline prose and keenly observed character moments, replete with love and satisfaction...as long as you don’t mind having your heart broken repeatedly along the way. And clearly, dear reader, you are something of a masochist, since you have trusted us, the author, with your open, vulnerable, yearning heart. Please pardon us while we crush it beneath our narrative heels, so to speak, for it is not for nothing that we are known as **_the Angst Master._ ** As the youths of today might say, R.I.P. your feels. We shall return the remains of them to you at the end of this story in a sealed, leak-proof container.)

This story takes place on Heck’s eleventh birthday. While she did not yet refer to herself by her full witchy name, she had already rejected her birth name _Warlock._ She insisted on being called _Heck,_ for reasons that you shall read about later. 

Heck was beginning to suspect, as she neared puberty, that she was not a boy, as her parents thought. Instead, she had the idea that she was more like her beloved Nanny Ashtoreth, who was both a witch and a girl. Because she hadn’t voiced these thoughts, though, everyone referred to Heck by the right name (except for her parents because they were always wrong about everything), but not by the right pronouns. We, however, as the omniscient, omnipotent narrator, have taken the liberty (which we can do — it says so right on our Artistic License) to put the proper pronouns in. This is because we like things to be accurate. (We are, after all, a thoroughly reliable narrator.)

Before we set the stage, let us introduce the players. There is Heck, of course, the birthday girl who loves creepy crawlies and hates her own party. There are also two ineffable beings. One is Aziraphale the angel; the other is Crowley the demon. 

These two friends are determined to stop the Apocalypse in its tracks, although they have no idea how. (They could just trust to their sheer ineptitude.) They think Heck is the Antichrist, and they want to stop her from turning evil and ending the world. Their first ploy involved them becoming household staff for the Dowlings, Aziraphale as the gardener Francis, Crowley as the governess Nanny Ashtoreth. They figured that Francis would teach Heck good, and Nanny would teach Heck evil, and they’d cancel each other out. Then Heck would be normal. They did not count on loving the child (look — we said they were inept, not to mention chronically clueless) and making her the daughter they always wanted. So that was kind of a wash.

Still under the misconception that their kid is the Antichrist, the Inept Ineffables are now staking out Heck’s birthday party. They expect a hellhound to appear at noon, at which point the kid will name the dog (presumably something like _Blasphemer, Biter of Grownups Who Say ‘Because I Said So!’,_ or _Steve),_ who will then fulfill the role determined by its name. (Don’t ask us what role _Steve_ entails. Maybe collecting tropical fish?) Once the hellhound is roused, the End of Days will begin.

Therefore we find our Dynamic (Doltish) Duo discreetly incognito in extremely clever disguises. Aziraphale, who has always (wrongly) thought of himself as a talented stage magician, now dresses in smart black and white, from the shiny crown of his top hat, to the gleaming white of his spats. He is undercover as _the Amazing Ezra Fell, Prestidigitator and Sleight of Hand Artist Extraordinaire!_ (He rejected Crowley’s suggestion to call himself _the Astounding Angelini,_ on the grounds that the name sounded too much like his favorite type of pasta.) He performs for a mob of increasingly bored and rude children who have no appreciation for his true gifts.

Crowley, who has never thought of himself as any sort of performer, is masquerading as… Well… You see… The thing is — Crowley never masquerades as anything. Whatever form he takes, whatever clothes he’s in, he always stands out as himself. 

What we mean to say is that there’s always something uncanny about him. If she’s Mala the snake, the winged coil of darkness, filled with light, that’s obviously uncanny, but his two other humanoid forms are unusual too. If he’s Crowley or if she’s Nanny, there are always the yellow reptilian eyes with vertical pupils, always the delicately sensitive forked tongue, always the tendency to lapse into hissing at emotional moments. Even if Crowley’s or Nanny’s sunglasses never come off, most people have an intuition that they’re dealing with someone unusual.

Crowley gave up on discretion millennia ago. Now, as he leans against a pole at the back of the pavilion in which Aziraphale performs, he wears tight layers of black and the inevitable sunglasses. With his liquidly lounging stance and his chin-length red hair pulled back into a ponytail with several loose bits fluffing rakishly around his face, he is extremely obvious. 

Crowley is also an Extremely Cool Dude. If you look at him, might assume blithe nonchalance at best, judgmental hauteur at worst. He regards the world as if he thinks nothing of their opinion of him, but, if they know what’s good for them, they should think everything of _his_ opinion of _them._

And nothing, as we shall see in this story, could be further from the truth. We don’t know what you know about demons, but this particular one cares about _everything,_ and he does so _very deeply._ This one is made of _love,_ the all-consuming, tender, passionate, devoted kind — you know, the kind that makes you want to vomit because it’s so cloyingly sweet. (Well, it makes us want to vomit at any rate.) 

(Our apologies to anyone who thinks that Crowley, as an angel who sauntered into demonhood, is a Suffering Creature of Imperishable Angst. Yes, he’s unhappy about his barring from Heaven, and, yes, that informs his psychology, but he’s not some tortured Romantic hero. He, like all angels, demons, and witches, just tends to go from _Zero_ to _Apocalyptic Angst_ in 0.666 seconds based on nothing but assumptions. In other words, he causes most of his own problems through panic. However, at base, he’s an inept doofus whose unshakable love for his angel and his witch endure through all momentary freakouts, traumas, and conflicts.) 

Let us revise our original conclusion, shall we? While Crowley is certainly not in much of a disguise to anyone else, he certainly seems to be deeply undercover in one respect. What is he hiding from then?

Why, his own heart, of course.


	2. Rudy Takes a Nap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rudy Ames, Heck's current au pair, reflects on his position in the world's easiest job and takes a nap, little suspecting his imminent rude awakening...

Rudy Ames, sixteen, dragged a lawn chair under a shady green tree maybe thirty yards from the pavilion where the magic show was going on. He flipped his sunglasses down from his head, cracked open his soda, took a swig, then let out a sustained burp. He timed himself. Thirty seconds — pretty nice! (One of the few interests he shared with Heck was contests in rude noises. She tended to beat him, somehow. She said the former gardener, who was an expert at fake farts, had taught her.)

He was the son of Heck’s dad’s friend from the States, Gerald Ames. He’d needed an easy way to earn cash over the summer, so his dad had recommended him to Heck’s dad to be Heck’s au pair. He would, his dad said, be a glorified and overpaid babysitter for a kid who fended for herself. He’d have plenty of time to _learn about the rich history of the land that gave America birth._ (He was always saying things like that because, despite being a historian who studied how people lived, he had never seemed to learn how people actually talked.) 

Rudy was not interested in crumbling castles and dead white British dudes (unless they were like one of those King Jameses who did everything but marry the guy he was in love with). He preferred (American) football. So, in packing for his three-month stay in England, he jettisoned all the smelly old books that his dad had so thoughtfully provided him. Instead he packed three quarters of his luggage with books about _the game._ He knew how to play it well enough; in fact, he was a natural. But there was more to football than the physical stuff. There was the whole strategy thing, and that’s what Rudy wanted to spend the summer on. And, since Heck basically took care of herself, he had plenty of time for study.

Today, with Heck’s eleventh birthday party, Rudy had even less to do than usual. Mrs. Dowling had minute-by-minute plans for the twenty kids for the entire four-hour length of the party. (There were also contingency plans for every event, as well as contingency plans for the contingency plans.) Right now Heck and the kids were watching a magician perform. (Rudy couldn’t tell if the guy was bad or just so good he was pretending to be bad. Either way, the kids were severely unimpressed.)

Opening _Classic Football Plays,_ Rudy clicked out a retractable pen and returned to chapter 3. For about ten minutes, he annotated the text, filling the margins. Then the gentle humidity of the air, the light breeze, and the warmth (unusual for Tadfield, Oxfordshire) soon affected him. He yawned and chugged his soda again, but even a twenty-five-second burp couldn’t perk him up. Abandoning his book and chair, he flopped supine in the nice soft grass and went to sleep.


	3. Crowley Trips Over the Manny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley watches Aziraphale's disastrous magic act, thinks nasty thoughts about the birthday guests, goes off to find Heck, concludes that she's NOT the Antichrist, and scares the poop out of Heck's current au pair.
> 
> Note: This chapter contains a homophobic slur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains a homophobic slur.

Crowley used to complain that Aziraphale’s sleight-of-hand act was embarrassing, but that was before he learned to appreciate it. Now he chuckled as he watched his best friend in the universe let loose a deck of cards into a shower, chase a rabbit under his draped table, and forget _Abracadabra._ Aziraphale was a riot, even if he doesn’t know he was.

Aziraphale tried to return his top hat to his head with a jaunty toss. The hat landed on his head, all right, but upside-down. Aziraphale’s face reddened as the kids whooped; Crowley saw him sweating, both from the sticky humid air under the pavilion and from impending humiliation. If only he’d loosen up and embrace the absurdity, he’d be wonderful. 

“Silly angel,” murmured Crowley. “Can’t you see? You’re not just a magician. You’re a magical clown!” He wanted to pull Aziraphale from the stage that moment, tell the kids to shut up, and take Aziraphale into the rich, cool shade of Nanny’s garden. While the purple pain bushes surrounded them with a dark, minty scent, he’d tell Aziraphale what a brilliant entertainer he was and how much he loved ~~him~~ his act and — 

But no. It was 10:45 AM, and Aziraphale’s show lasted for another excruciating hour. Someone had to stay alert in case the hellhound showed up early, got its name from Heck, and started the countdown to the End of Days. And that someone, standing in the back of the pavilion, cringing and frowning every time someone said something mean about his friend, was Crowley.

Some of the kids in the audience thought Aziraphale’s clumsiness a hilarious part of the act, but most of them didn’t. “Booooo!” yelled one, starting off a chorus of _Boooooos._

“This is boring. I want cake,” said another kid.

“He looks like a faggot anyway,” said a third kid. Several others agreed.

Crowley let out a very Nanny-like “Hmph!” Heck, his hellspawn, the birthday kid, would never be so rude. She’d never been an obedient child, much to Crowley’s satisfaction. She asked too many uncomfortable questions and informed her parents that she was going to do things her way because their way was stupid. (To her credit, the kid had a finely tuned ability to detect and destroy nonsense, which was, Crowley estimated, about 95% of what came from her parents’ mouths.) 

Despite her outspokenness, Heck was a decent, courteous kid. While she always spoke her mind, she cared about people’s feelings. If she were in the audience, she’d be telling people to _shush_ and _be polite._ She might even stand up and say something like, _I think the magician’s tired. Who wants to play another game?_ And Francis had seen to it that Heck knew all about empathy and acceptance, so there was no way she’d use a homophobic term as an insult like that little brat in the second row.

Who were these kids anyway? Crowley reviewed Aziraphale’s audience. Heck had one friend in all of Tadfield, at least the last time Crowley had checked: Deenie Tyler, daughter of the self-appointed official busybody R.P. But Deenie wasn’t here (probably because her dad forbade her from the Dowling property because _he_ was scared of Nanny, the only person in all of town who dared to challenge his authority).

The kids fidgeting before Aziraphale whined and groaned, flopping around in imitation distress. Their cries of fake suffering caused various adults to spring up from their unobtrusive, uncomfortable metal folding chairs on the sidelines and soothe the kids. Crowley knew who the little jerks were now: Mr. Dowling’s friends’ kids. Ignored by their parents and indulged by their hovering au pairs, they had all the self-discipline and maturity of alfalfa sprouts. (And Crowley, who grew various herbs and leaves for his infrequent culinary experiments, had met plenty of fine, upstanding alfalfa sprouts who put these human youngsters to shame.) They weren’t Heck’s friends at all. This occasion, like everything else Harriet Dowling undertook, was a very organized affair, calculated as much for appearances as for amusement.

And where was the birthday kid, Heck herself? She certainly wasn’t in the audience, or else she’d be telling all those twits to shove it. Crowley’s gaze skimmed the other activity stations arrayed on the Dowling cottage lawn. Party staff, in white shirts with black bow ties and black trousers, bustled among the stations, checking and re-checking. Mrs. Dowling yelled at them to go one way, changed her mind, called them back, and yelled at them to go another. 

Crowley winced sympathetically. The two of them had been friends of a sort, once upon a time. Back in Heck’s earlier years, he, Heck, and Harriet had shared a memorable trip to Provincetown, Massachusetts. Thaddeus J. Noshow had skipped out on the vacation, so Harriet had asked Nanny. And he had gone because she asked him as if he were more than just  _ Nanny the nanny _ (Thaddeus J. Wanker’s favorite jokeless joke), but a person worth knowing in his own right. And he’d discovered in Harriet a keen, sharp-witted, tautly stretched spirit. She was a fellow questioner and control freak, a fellow too in the struggle to perform femininity well enough to meet overlapping, contradictory expectations.

Then Harriet had broken up the idyllic trio of Heck, her Hellmom, and her Angeldad. At Thaddeus the Saddeus’ influence, Heck had been banished to Winslow Holm School for Boys in upstate New York. Heck, feeling betrayed by her beloved Nanny, wanted nothing to do with either Crowley or Aziraphale at that point, but he had begged Harriet to keep in touch.

She hadn’t. And now she was even more control freaky than ever. She had doubled down in her role as the Perfect Mother, which probably meant that she remained devoted to Thaddeus J. Outhouse. That meant she was even unhappier than she had been. Fueled by anxiety and caffeine, she regarded life as an endless wind sprint toward perfection. “Harriet,” he said. There was no use talking to her. She wouldn’t recognize him anyway. Besides, she had made her choice. Crowley turned his back on her.

The other party activities sat empty. The fan inflating a bouncy castle droned, struggling in the heat. The castle itself, made of once brightly colored nylon, now sagged like a used sock. Several dodgem cars waited on a plastic rink. Both cars and rink reflected the cloudless sun in painful, concentrated bursts; Crowley imagined that he heard the plastic sizzle. A motor buzzed, exhausted, sending water up a hose to the head of the inground pool’s slide, turning it into a water slide. The water piddled down the slide in an unenthusiastic trickle. Yeah, that was about how Crowley felt about this whole thing himself. A birthday party from Hell crossed with (eventually) a hound from Hell. Fun times!

All the equipment had been sitting in the sun for so long that you’d probably sear your arse if you tried to do anything with it. It was almost something that they might have come up with in Hell, Crowley thought. —The playground you couldn’t play in. Too bad no one ever listened to his suggestions. That was the problem with Hell — no imagination.

Over by the refreshments (plastic-wrapped towers of sweets, cancerously neon drinks, and a listing edifice of birthday cake), the sweet smell of barbecue wafted. Caterers toiled over grills, charring enough dead animals to feed the hordes. Crowley, who had a high metabolism and was always hungry, felt his stomach gurgle. 

Too bad most of the stuff would be wasted. The guests would eat a third, have a food fight with the other third, and then throw the last third into the pool. Crowley momentarily indulged the thought of throwing _them_ into the pool. “Bratssss,” he said aloud as the muggy breeze shifted, bringing an appropriately Hellish push of heat from the grills, along with the deliciousness of roasted flesh.

Crowley’s earlier wish — to save Aziraphale from embarrassment by fleeing to Nanny’s garden — came to his mind. Nanny, Francis, and Heck had spent seemingly endless summers in its dim and dappled depths. They read books aloud there all afternoon, then roasted vegetables for dinner in the firepit (for Francis was a strict vegetarian), and even slept some nights under the gallowswood bower. If Crowley remembered it as a sanctum, then Heck surely did too. She must be there.

Crowley wove across the expansive lawn. He swerved neatly around staff who suddenly panicked and reversed course when Harriet neared. All the while, he was thinking.

He and Aziraphale had come to the Dowling cottage, thinking that Heck was the Antichrist who needed to be stopped. After nine years of Francis affecting Heck for good and Nanny for ill, they hoped that Heck would end up average, normal, un-Hellish. When she grew up to be an unassuming, dangerously inquisitive, snake-loving nerd, they figured that their work here was done.

Now they were back (well, Crowley and Aziraphale, not Nanny and Francis). And intelligence from Hell (okay, _news_ from Hell, since there weren’t many brains down there) suggested that the damned dog (Crowley congratulated himself on the pun) would soon manifest at Heck’s house. All of this pointed to the conclusion that Heck was the Antichrist. But was she, though?

Crowley had never believed it. Sure, he called her his _little hellspawn,_ but it had just been a term of endearment. Even if she was somehow descended from the Big Red Horned Dude, Heck was not the End of the World personified. She was a kid with a slug farm, a penchant for dyeing her hair (navy blue, deep purple, sparkly black, and other Gothy shades), a strange sensitivity for other people’s feelings, and a very firm sense of right and wrong. She wasn’t the End of Days. She was just a girl — his and Aziraphale’s.

Besides, the kid was too much of a pushover to be Satan’s. As much as he had encouraged her to wreak vengeance upon her foes and crush the weak beneath her feet, that never happened. Heck was too introverted to know many people; she barely had friends, much less enemies. Even when Deenie had temporarily antagonized Heck when they were eight, Heck didn’t fight back. She just hid from Deenie because she didn’t want to be kicked again. 

Furthermore, Heck never crushed anything, even mosquitoes. She always chased them out of doors instead. She was too soft, that hellspawn of his. If the Four Horsepersons tried to offer her fealty as the Destroyer of Worlds, Crowley knew exactly what she’d say. _You’re silly. Go away. I’m not going to destroy the world. That’s not nice, and hurting people is wrong._

Crowley smirked. Yeah, that kid would have no trouble staring down Death and the gang with the sheer power of her stubbornness. “Hellsssspawn,” he said, his voice lowering and hissing with affection. He picked up his pace.

As Crowley hurried, he nearly tripped over someone or something. He flailed precariously. (Sometimes limbs were such blessing trouble. How did people manage with four?) He remained upright only by stepping one leg over the thing and bracing himself.

Sprawled out on the artificially green lawn (Crowley could sense the grass dying from overfertilization — the subsonic equivalent of air squealing from a leaky balloon) was a kid in their mid-teens. They had the beefy arms, narrow torso, and slightly pigeon chest that came from working out your limbs, but not really your shoulders, chest, and core so much. (Not that Crowley knew anything about working out. Once, though, he thought he’d seen an old angel acquaintance Imriel at Hardware, a mediocre gay bar in Boise. He decided he’d hit on him just to see what happened. The person he hit on was not Imriel, but a young human man named Cam. As a personal trainer, Cam had a lot of opinions about the right and wrong ways to get fit, build strength, maintain mobility, etc. Crowley, always fascinated by self-invention and self-presentation, had listened to him for hours. They still met up whenever Crowley moseyed in the direction of Idaho, which was like every other year.)

Anyway, with the top-heavy physique, the overall muscularity, and two-meter-plus height, the kid was a formidable size. Crowley glared at the book on the kid’s chest — _Classic Football Plays_ . He glared harder at the kid’s loose thick curls, so blond they were almost yellow, and the strong line of the square jaw. He’d heard some of the younger kids talk about _Heck’s manny;_ one girl had even mentioned that he was _an American footballer and kinda hot._ So here he was then: Rudy Ames.

Crowley (who did not like pointlessly gendered terms like _manny)_ folded his arms. He knew why Rudy the au pair was here. Mr. Dowling had always wanted a son, an athletic golden child, tanned from hours of vigorous outdoor horseplay, that he could do manly things with. He had, of course, Heck, a kid who was shortish and softish, absolutely uninterested in any sort of sports (unless you told her that she could go to the Outer Oxford Wildlife Interpretive Center and watch the snakes afterward). Anyway, this Rudy was Mr. Dowling’s ideal son, hired to give Crowley’s hellspawn an example of masculinity (according to Mr. Dowling) that she didn’t even want.

While he could (mostly) forgive Rudy for unwittingly enforcing Mr. Dowling’s oppressive concepts of heteronormative masculinity, Crowley was still angry. This kid was supposed to be caring for his hellspawn, and what was he doing? Taking a bloody nap! Rudy had been entrusted with responsibility for the most precious child in the entire universe, and he was shirking. 

Crowley thought about waking Rudy with a good hard kick and lecturing the Heaven out of him. His foot twitched. He even drew back his leg. But no...the kid didn’t deserve to suffer, even if he was asleep at the wheel.

He still needed to learn a lesson, though, and Crowley couldn’t resist the opportunity to be just a little, teensy bit evil. Opening his mouth, he let out a flowing sort of rushing noise, as of a great serpent approaching. The kid bolted up in terror, and the fun began.


	4. Rudy Wakes Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rudy, Heck's au pair, is ambushed by Heck's previous child care provider. The tense situation resolves with unexxxxxpected friendlinesssss.

Snake! He had heard it! 

Rudy woke suddenly. He tried to lurch upright, but there was a guy, dressed all in black, standing over him. 

For a moment, Rudy thought maybe his naptime dream had taken a much more enjoyable turn, since the guy was rather attractive. Okay, so he was real scrawny, but all that black made that pale white skin and that deep red hair just kinda glow. 

Then he realized that the guy was squinting at him in a unenjoyable way. He froze.

“Sssso...” said the guy, his arms crossed. Was he...hissing? Yeah, he was. “Rudy Ames, is it?”

“Huh?” said Rudy. “I mean, yeah.” 

“The new au pair, right?” The guy sneered.

Not this again. Everyone compared Rudy to the previous person, and he was sick of it. Depending on who he talked to, the nanny was either like Mary Poppins, only evil, or like Mary Poppins, only better. She was also freaky. Rudy had seen the pictures of her, and she looked grim and forbidding in every single one, even when she was smiling. It was probably the all-black clothes and the permanent sunglasses.

However, as far as Heck was concerned, the nanny was better than her own parents. (Rudy had to admit that most parents were better than Heck’s, even his more intellectually inclined ones who still weren’t quite sure why he wanted to, in his mom’s words, _attack other men professionally for possession of a prolate spheroid.)_ The nanny was also, if you believed Heck’s tall tales, either a witch, a snake, or both. Brrrrrrr! Rudy shivered. A real lovable reptile, apparently.

Rudy glanced again at the guy looming over him. Except for the clothes and the hairstyle, he looked very similar to the nanny. Coincidence, right? That must be it. So why was a chill running down Rudy’s spine with little cold feet?

“Yeah,” said Rudy with a nod, finding his voice at last. “The, uh, au pair.”

The guy turned over _Classic Football Plays_ in his hands. One of the guy’s eyebrows raised as he scanned Rudy’s commentary and diagrams. “Furthering your ssssportssss career, I ssssee.”

Rudy gave up on the masculine pronouns. With the black and the sunglasses and the eyebrow and, most of all, the serpentine glare and the hiss, this was not just any hot guy. This wasn’t even a guy. This was Heck’s infamous first child care provider, the nanny. Rudy tensed up with the sudden stupid thought that she was going to eat him (and not in that good way). “Oh hell,” he muttered. “You’re the freaky nanny.”

The nanny concealed most of a laugh in a snort, and Rudy realized that he’d just called her that aloud. Not only that, but, as she stared down at him, thinking, she tapped the tip of his tongue on his lips, and it was narrow and forked: a snake’s tongue. 

With yet another chill, Rudy realized that wasn’t talking to a human. He was talking to a snake who was trying unsuccessfully to look like a human. The nanny was a snake, and he’d just insulted her.

“Actually,” said the nanny, _“Nanny_ is my name, Nanny Ashtoreth, short for _Nancy._ I was never _the freaky nanny.”_ Squatting in one sinuous motion to Rudy’s level, she said almost as if it were a secret, “I’m the freaky governess.” She smiled now, but not like she was going to eat him.

“Um?” said Rudy, who had always been under the impression that they were the same thing.

“Well, a _nanny_ provides child care alone, while a _governess_ teaches too. You know — _moral_ authority. That’s what I’ve got.” With an easy shrug, Nanny sat down next to Rudy, stretched her legs out straight, and crossed them at the ankle.

Moral authority? Oh no! “You’re not going to tell Mrs. Dowling, are you?”

“Mmmm…” Nanny considered it. A few seconds passed. Rudy noticed that Nanny wasn’t scrutinizing him so hard. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t snake chow after all. He put his shoulders down slightly.

“Naahhhhh,” Nanny said in a relaxed drawl. “I’m not going to tell her.” She cocked her head keenly, thought for a moment, and said, “But you could.”

Rudy hunched his shoulders again. “What? Why the hell would I want to do that?”

“Look at it this way, kid,” she said, her voice softer than before. Even though she just called Rudy a _kid,_ it seemed less like an insult and more like Rudy’s Aunt Cheryl, who was ten years older, would say when she gave him advice. “Heck wants someone like me. You want time to study your football. I guarantee she’s not that happy. Are you?”

Nanny reminded Rudy less of a snake now. She was more like the school guidance counselor he’d seen a few times when his parents were pressuring him toward all those Advanced Placement classes, like French 4000 and Boring Books by Dead People. He’d wanted advice about how to make his parents see that he liked football, not AP courses. The guidance counselor didn’t give Rudy many answers though. He mostly asked Rudy about his feelings, which wasn’t really helpful. “Well, the money’s good, but — eh — “ Rudy shrugged.

“You’re bored,” Nanny finished for him, her voice quickening. “That might explain the naps. Anyway, say to the Dowlings that this position isn’t working out for either of you. Then find something more suitable.” The hiss seemed to come up in her voice when she was thinking about Heck, and it disappeared now that she was telling Rudy what to do.

Rudy thought about it for a few seconds. “Yeah. Um, wow. That might actually work.” He thought some more and finally put his shoulders down all the way. Despite looking scary, Nanny was actually kind of chill. She seemed like the sort of person who probably treated Heck as a person who deserved explanations for things and turned everything into a teachable moment. 

“Of course it will.” 

“Um, thanks. I’m gonna — “

“Just a minute. Before you go… Have you seen my hellspawn?”

“Your what?” Rudy sat up. 

“Heck. The birthday kid. _My_ birthday kid.”

“I… Um, no. Sorry. But I’m sure she’s not in any trouble. She’s a smart little kid. Entertains herself mostly. Never had to look after her much.”

“Kid,” said Nanny, “my hellsssspawn never wanted to be looked after. She wanted to be loved.” She gave Rudy the saddest, most wistful smile. Rudy knew then that, however freaky she was reputed to be, Nanny had loved Heck in a way that he hadn’t. With that, Nanny left, her body swinging from side to side in a loose slouch that was the human equivalent of slithering.

Rudy realized several things simultaneously. First, he was not cut out for child care, no matter how good the pay was. Second, he had just gotten told by a magical and shapeshifting — or at least gender-bending — snake person with moral authority. Third, he needed to talk to Mrs. Dowling like right now about alternative career options.

Pocketing his book and brushing the dirt from his clothes, Rudy looked around for Mrs. Dowling. His stridently atheist parents denounced all organized religion as _superstitious rubbish,_ but he had had a very Catholic babysitter, Mrs. Avenir. She told him all about miracles, saints, demons, and guardian angels, her favorite subject. They were Rudy’s favorite too. He liked fantasy trilogies, so he envisioned a guardian angel as your own personal invisible wizard who would help you out when you were in a jam.

Rudy remembered what Mrs. Avenir had said about guardian angels. They appeared in forms you never expected, at times when you really needed them, and there was always something uncanny about them. Their appearance — usually the eyes or the voice — gave them away. They did just what they had to do, and then they disappeared.

Thinking about Nanny, Rudy smiled to himself. He didn’t have a guardian angel. But maybe he had a guardian snake instead. 


	5. Heck's Real Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finally meets up with Heck and talks to her. Actually, he makes incoherent strangled noises while she chatters on about her real mom. Then she turns into Nanny and realizes the horrible truth about her care of Heck.

Heck was in Nanny’s garden, squawking on grass blades. She picked the wide blades of frightgrass — flat and greenish, like old bruises — and held one between the inner sides of her thumbs. Bringing the blade to her lips, she blew through it. A noise that was akin to a high-pitched staccato fart ripped through the garden. Heck squawked on her grass blade again and again. 

Crowley smothered a giggle. Francis, lover of jokes based on bodily functions and their sound effects, had taught Heck the secret of squawking grass blades specifically to annoy Crowley. Both he and Francis soon regretted this lesson, because, for two weeks following, Heck blasted them with the noise constantly. She snickered every time, but Crowley and Francis plugged their ears.

Crowley’s smile shriveled up and died when he realized where Heck was sitting. She hunched in a cave created by the interlocking branches of the purple pain bush. She had sat there about two years ago after the Dowlings first informed her that she was too old for her Nanny and Francis. From then on, they said, she would be going to Winslow Holm School for Boys in upstate New York. Dashing out into the rain, Heck sobbed uncontrollably. She took shelter under the purple pain bush, in its dense and mint-scented shadows.

Then, on the day soon after, when Nanny and Francis parted from Heck, Heck had retreated to the same floral cave. _You can so take me with you!_ were her last words to Nanny. _You can do anything. You just don’t want to take me with you._ And she had fled, weeping, spurning all of Nanny and Francis’ offers of phone calls, letters, visits, and continued love.

So...yeah. The kid obviously didn’t want him; Crowley had tasted her anger, betrayal, and rejection — as he could any negative emotions — on that day. As bitter as coughed-up stomach bile, as rough as ashes, it was a sensation that abraded on the palate for days after. 

And yet here he was, a glutton for punishment, heading back toward the kid, because...why? He wanted to have his heart wrenched up through his esophagus again and ground into ashes in his mouth? He really needed to nope on out of here.

“You look kinda familiar,” Heck remarked. Crowley discovered that, despite his ideas about leaving, he now stood at the entrance to her purple pain bush cave. The kid scanned him up and down. She looked the same as she always had: shortish and softish, like Crowley’s angel, the perfect shape for hugs. “Do I know you?”

“Um,” Crowley replied, mentally cursing his legs, which had taken him in the exact opposite direction from the one he needed to go. 

As far as he could tell, Heck had never seen him as him, except for that one time when she was eight. To make a very long story short, he and Aziraphale were fleeing Tadfield for a well-deserved afternoon off. The call came on Nanny’s mobile phone that Heck had been injured at school. She wanted her Nanny. All of these circumstances culminated in the following: Crowley, having completely forgotten that he was Crowley and also that he was still in Nanny’s clothes, clinging to Heck and going, _Oh kid, oh kid, oh kid..._

So yeah, anyway, Heck had met him once — and Aziraphale too, for that matter. And, like the canny little hellspawn she was, she remembered him and clocked him. Those blue eyes of hers were like Crowley’s angel’s too: pale and seemingly gentle, but sharp enough to notice things you hadn’t expected them to see. 

“Sort of?” Crowley hazarded. “Maybe? But not really?”

Heck regarded him for a moment. “Party’s too loud for you too, huh?”

“Eh,” said Crowley, who had apparently just lost the ability to produce more than a single syllable per question.

“I don’t even know them. They’re just my _dad’s_ friends’ kids!” Heck loaded contempt on the word _dad._ “I couldn’t even invite my real friend because her dad is a jerk.” Her thick dark eyebrows gathered together. 

Deenie, Crowley said to himself. He could mention Deenie’s name. He could destroy the illusion that he just looked sort of like someone Heck knew. He could say that they did know each other. He could talk to her and be the friend she wanted. He could — hypothetically. So why couldn’t he in actuality?

Crowley didn’t know. He only knew that sitting this close to his daughter made his heart pound like it was about to discorporate. He only knew that witnessing her sadness caused his own throat to close up. He only knew that every word she spoke made him want to speak a thousand in return, endless answers of love to questions she never asked. And he also knew that he couldn’t speak. Just like when Heck said that he looked familiar, somehow the truth — the burning nearness of her, the longing that overwhelmed him — silenced him. It always did.

“Mm,” remarked Crowley in what he hoped was a vaguely empathic grunt. Time to get going! he thought to his legs. His legs had other ideas. They promptly mutinied and sent him into a squat so that he was eye level with his kid.

“I mean — I could sneak over to her house,” Heck continued, “but...still…” She flopped onto her back. “I wish that at least one person I liked was here.” With sullenness smothering pain, she said, almost too low to be heard, “I wish my mom was here.”

“Her?” Crowley at least had the mental coherence to point across the yard at Harriet. She was lecturing three catering staff, two of which appeared about to cry. 

“My _real_ mom.”

“Ah?”

“Yeah, the one who really took care of me.”

“Uh!” The kid didn’t mean Nanny, did she? She remembered? She cared? No! She’d made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with him or Aziraphale ever again. The taste of hatred didn’t lie.

“And I know that my mom and dad hired her to take care of me,” said Heck, shaking her head and dismissing that, “and I know that she wasn’t like the mom whose uterus I came out of, but she was my real mom anyway.”

The kid couldn’t be talking about him. She must be mixing him up with some other caregiver. Yeah, that was it. Heck must have had someone else after Crowley, and surely that one had been much more effective than some semi-inept demon… “R-real?” He was momentarily proud of himself for dredging up an intelligible response.

“Yeah.” Heck curled into a seated fetal position, clutching her knees tightly to her chest, leaning her cheek against her kneecaps. “She was real, even if she lied and said she couldn’t take me with her instead of me going to boarding school. She loved me...well, up until then.”

No doubt about it — Heck meant him. Crowley gulped and felt his insides suddenly travel downward on a very fast elevator to the center of the Earth. The kid had gotten _attached._

Crowley felt like facepalming. All he had ever wanted was to cancel out Aziraphale’s benign influences with his own malignant ones. Then the kid would be too normal and human to end the world. Sure, maybe he taught the kid a thing or two along the way. But that was mostly because she never shut up with the questions and the general know-it-all adorableness. 

(Besides, seriously… If a six-year-old kid comes up to you like, _I asked my dad why I was named_ _after an evil wizard, and he just said,_ Ask your mother, _so I did, but she really didn’t say, and I think maybe it’s because they’re scared I’m gonna be an evil wizard, but I don’t wanna; I wanna be a good witch like youuuuuu!_ and starts sobbing all over your skirt, wouldn’t you tell her that she’ll never be an evil wizard, not if you can help it, and she’ll always be your damnable little hellspawn, and of course she would make a wonderful good witch? Crowley rather thought you would.)

But he’d screwed up even at that job. He’d done something wrong, and now the kid _loved_ him and _missed_ him and wanted _him._ He couldn’t even be wrong in the right way!

“You know what I liked best about her...before she went away?” Heck said. “She was a witch!”

“Wh — ? Wh — ?” Crowley finally coughed up more than one syllable, but the result was sadly lacking in sense: “Which watchery did you what?”

“Um…?” Heck squinted at him in confusion.

“What watchery did you witch?” Crowley asked. Heck’s expression didn’t vary. Crowley realized that he’d swapped words. He tried again, more deliberately: “What — witchery — did you — watch?”

“You mean — like the Wiccan witchery or the witchy witchery?”

“Which watcher.” Crowley threw up his hands. “Whichever.”

“Well, I’m not sure if she ever did Wiccan witchery,” said Heck, screwing up her face as she thought, “but I definitely saw her do like magic witchery. But it was with flowers, and Wicca’s a nature religion, and flowers are nature, so maybe she was a Wiccan witch.”

“Rites? You saw me — You saw her do righty witches?” Of course he was stumbling over his words. “Witchy rites? Oh blessit. Right, I can’t believe you saw rites. It’s wrong, all wrong!”

“Rights? You mean like _gay rights?_ Oh yeah, she was very into rights.” Heck bobbed her chin up and down. “She taught me all about them. She had all these little striped flags on her bumper. And one of them was for gay rights, and one of them was for pan rights. I think means that she actually might be a Wiccan, because Pan is a nature god. And one was for Polynesian rights, and one was for...leather rights, I think? That’s the right to wear leather, you know,” said Heck wisely, “because some vegetarians don’t like it when you do.”

“Yes, right. No...wait. That’s the right kind of wrongs. The wrong kind of wrongs. The _wrong_ kind of _rites!”_

“Oh, rites like _r-i-t-e-s?”_ Heck had always been a quick study in the vocabulary and religion departments. (When she was eight, her persistent questions about _eschatology_ and _exegesis_ had gotten her evicted from Sunday school. According to the teacher, she confused the other children. It was too bad she wasn’t a snake, Crowley thought proudly. She’d make a heck — or possibly a Heck — of a little Serpent of Temptation.)

“Yes. No. Wait. Right. Right, those are the right rites. Rites like ceremonies. Like which watch whites were you witching?” Crowley gave up correcting himself.

Fortunately the kid knew what he meant. “You mean how do I know she’s a witch? Oh, that’s easy!” Leaning toward Crowley, Heck nodded quickly, needing little encouragement to go on about her favorite person. “Once — I think I was like three — I saw her working in the garden. That’s because Francis — he was the gardener — always seemed to kill plants, so she had to fix them.”

“Buh?” Crowley’s momentary blast of coherence deserted him.

Heck creased her forehead, thinking. “Actually she wasn’t really working in the garden. She was just sitting there, with these viny bushes on either side of her, and the vines were coiling around her wrists like bracelets.” She spun her hands in imitation. “They were growing for her, or maybe they were even part of her, like they were all of these wonderful beautiful amazing snakes hatching out of her. She was so, so happy that her happiness was like light, shining through all her black clothes.” Some of that light seemed to reflect out of the memory and into the present day, brightening Heck’s features as she smiled. “She was happy because they were _her_ plants, and she was making them grow.”

“Gkkk.” Even Crowley’s vowels were vacating now. The kid had seen him. She knew everything.

“And that’s why I think she was both a Wiccan witch and a magical witch,” said Heck after a thoughtful pause. “Obviously she had plant magic, but I think she was Wiccan too. She said that Wicca was all about reverence for the natural world and respect for people and animals and everything. That’s what she had: reverence.”

“Rggh.”

“Yeah, so that’s my real mom...or she was until she ran away. She even gave me my name. She always called me her _little hellspawn,_ but in a nice way,” Heck continued. “My parents wouldn’t say it, though. They would only say _darn_ and _heck,_ so I said I was Heck. So _Heck_ is for _Hellspawn,_ which is what Nanny called me, so that’s how she gave me my name.”

“Nnn…” said Crowley. He coughed and tried again. “Nnnna… N-Nanny?” His name fell like a stone into the well of his mind. It crashed through water that had long been still, whipping up ripples and turmoil. He went cold and hot by turns, and he shuddered. 

Crowley had largely conscious control over his forms/genders: the one he was currently in (Crowley the guy), Nanny the lady, and Mala the snake. Nevertheless, sudden emotion often precipitated a shapeshift that he couldn’t always guide, even if he could predict it. Please, kid, he thought. Don’t call her forth. If you do, then Crowley will have to go, and she’ll have to come, and I’ll have to — I can’t — 

“Yeah, that was her name. Well, actually, I think it might have been legally _Nancy Ashtoreth,_ but anyway, she said, _Call me Nanny,_ so I did. It’s kind of funny that I had a Nanny for a nanny, huh?”

Crowley opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He had no more words and no more motion, and it wasn’t even the climactic moment. At the very least, he should have been stunned into silence by something earth-shattering. But here he was, tongue-tied over a silly pun.

Heck, Nanny's little hellspawn, immediately corrected her erroneous statement. “Okay, well, it really wasn’t funny ‘cause people’s names aren’t funny. My dad thought it was funny, but that’s because he was wrong. Nanny was hired to be my nanny — well, she said _governess_ because that gave her moral authority — but she wasn’t ever my governess.” She looked down at the wood chips they sat on. Then she met Crowley’s eyes and said in a sad, soft voice, “She was my mom.”

At that moment, Crowley, in a fortuitous burst of dramatically appropriate timing, obeyed Heck’s summons and changed. She turned into Nanny. All of Crowley’s curves, which were in his motion, took their place now in Nanny’s flesh. So many of his features were straight and narrow lines, but she found all that linearity in her closely controlled movement. Even as she relaxed into the greater weight of her breasts and the rounder width of her hips, she pulled herself together with efficient fastidiousness, head held high on an alertly strung spine. It was always pleasing, the smooth and elegant way in which her sharpness and softness, her curves and angles, redistributed.

Of course Nanny changed mentally as well. Crowley’s discombobulated thoughts unknotted and filed themselves in labeled cut glass boxes lining the shelves of her mind. All the jammed up and mispronounced words dissolved in her mouth, leaving a more coherent set. The new ones were just as dry, just as humorous and sharp, but slightly more mellifluous and ornate. She wasn’t a different person, just another presentation of the same individual.

Nanny’s feelings shifted too, along with the rest of her. She calmed; her heart beat slowly and steadily, for she was, after all, a snake. She tasted the truth in a way that Crowley had been too anxious to sense: She had failed at nothing. She had only succeeded so far beyond her wildest dreams that it was hard for her to recognize what she had done. And her success was in this child, this bright and kind-hearted and precociously perceptive little hellspawn of hers, who called Nanny _her real mom_ even though Nanny had left her.

“Of course I’m your mother,” Nanny said to Heck, stretching forth her arms. “Happy birthday, my little hellspawn.”

“Nanny! It is you! I knew it!” And, despite her earlier talk about Nanny’s abandonment of her, Heck catapulted into Nanny’s arms. 

They hugged for a moment that seemed both forever and not long at all. “My hellspawn,” said Nanny, rocking her from side to side. If she only held Heck tight enough, she’d never have to let her go. For a moment, nothing else mattered as Nanny as they held one another fast. Nanny and Heck fit so well together that, for a moment, there was no room between them for the miserable birthday party, the embarrassing magic show, the missing-in-action hellhound, or even the impending End of Days to separate them. 

When the two finally pulled back, Heck was weeping. Her face was red and swollen, even as she grinned. “You came back. You promised that you would, and you did! You came back...for me.” She shook her head, and a rain shower of tears crossed the sunshine of her smile. “You came back for me.” 

“Ah…” Nanny opened her mouth. Of all things, she especially despised imprecision and inaccuracy, and Heck’s assumption was both imprecise and inaccurate. Though Nanny was here with Heck, she had not returned for the purpose of seeing Heck, but to divert the hellhound (where was it?) and thus the Apocalypse.

But Heck didn’t let Nanny get a word in edgewise. “You promised, and you meant it. You really meant it. You...kept your promise,” Heck said, her voice almost dying away. “You kept your promise to me.” 

“Oh — child — “ said Nanny. _No — I didn’t. I never did._

“My dad — he says he’s gonna be there, but he’s always late,” said Heck, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “He always lies; he never keeps his promises, but you — “ The rain shower turned into a thunderstorm; she buried her face in her hands. Curling herself into a little ball, she held her knees to her chest with all her might. She cried, rocking forward and back on her butt.

At that second, Nanny realized why she had hesitated to approach Heck. Now she would have to tell her daughter that she hadn’t come back for her at all. Even more, she had to leave very soon. She was a breaker of promises as bad as Thaddeus Dowling XVI. 

Nanny hadn’t talked to Heck earlier because then she would have had to confront the truth: She was a liar and a traitor and, most of all, a bad mother.


	6. Rudy Survives Cakemageddon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Apocalypse is here, and it's sugary and delicious. Aziraphale and Rudy survive, but with some damage. As for Nanny...well, she's not doing so well either.

A knee connected with the side of Rudy’s ribs. Frosting smeared through his hair like paste. This mob of bored eleven-year-olds was worse than a football team. At least football players had rules that they sort of followed. Not these kids. It was no holds barred for them. 

Somehow the little shits gotten a hold of the birthday cake and started throwing it at the poor magician guy. As the magician tried to do a quick disappearing act, the kids turned on one another. They pulled hair, head-butted noses, and aimed for the genitals, all the while assaulting each other with frosting bombs. 

Rudy, who’d been coming back from using the bathroom in the house, saw the food flinging turn into an out-and-out brawl. He dove in to help the little shits’ overwhelmed caretakers, but got nothing for it except jabs to the gut and dessert smashed over his head. Deciding that he could save no one else beside himself, Rudy fought his way to the edge of the battlefield and fled.

He met the magician, who looked like he had been rolling in a bake shop. The guy was smallish and roundish and fairly vibrating with unhappiness. Sitting on the edge of a folding chair, he jiggled one leg, while spinning his top hat sideways, like some strange sort of wheel, between his hands. “Oh, this is really most distressing. First Crowley wanders off.” He dropped his hat, didn’t seem to notice, then turned to his coat. He flicked at it with brushing gestures that never quite made contact, almost as if he was intimidated by the mess. “Then the hellhound fails to appear. Then, for some reason, the youngsters call me names, and then…my jacket. The confection is practically ground into the labels.” He just gave up and outright shook his hands, blurring them like wings. “Ooh, yes!” Suddenly stopping, he licked frosting from his fingers. “Well, I will allow that it is quite a delicious cake, but why must it have been so forcibly introduced to my suit?”

“Cakemageddon, huh?” said Rudy, approaching him.

“Pardon me?” The magician glanced at him, his hands slowing to their usual flicker.

“It’s Cakemageddon back there. Or Cakepocalypse. Cake Wars. World War III with cake.”

“Cakepocalypse? Yes, well, I suppose it is rather.” The magician’s attention wandered as he looked over Rudy’s shoulder at the disastrous scene. “It’s certainly a tasty version of the End of Days, especially compared to that which will soon be upon us, but — confound it! I’ve kept this suit pristine for centuries now! And shall it be all undone by a scrum of overprivileged urchins who fancy their dessert to be an acceptable melee weapon?” Holding out his hands to his sides, he glanced down at his clothes as if he were under the spotlight and about to sing a solo about his woes.

“Um, I have a baby wipe,” Rudy offered, digging in his pocket.

“A which?”

“A baby wipe. It’s not gonna do anything for your suit — sorry — but you could like wash your hands.”

“Oh yes. Thank you very much, my dear boy [twitch twitch  _ flick] _ , but I fear that I am so...er...caked with cake that I would only redistribute the frosting about my person. It would take nothing short of a miracle to return me to my former state, and — well — “ The magician’s voice escalated to a slightly panicked pitch before he recalled himself. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through his nose. He looked like he was meditating and trying to  _ center himself, _ like Rudy’s mom did in her yoga classes. “In any event,” the magician concluded, “you seem to be in much more need of it than I.” He snapped his fingers at Rudy, and the remains of Cakemageddon disappeared entirely from Rudy and his clothes. 

Rudy wasn’t even surprised. It had been such a weird day already, meeting the snake dude who turned into a snake lady and who  _ then  _ turned out to be Heck’s Nanny, who actually really  _ wasn’t _ evil Mary Poppins. Rudy just decided that he was in the presence of another guardian angel (although this one, much to his relief, seemed comparatively unsnaky). “Uh, thanks. Can I, uh, help you with anything?”

The magician rubbed his forehead, smearing red frosting along his hairline like bad clown makeup. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my partner about?” he asked. A dead dove fell out of his sleeve unnoticed.

“Not sure. What do they look like?”

“Tall.” The magician held up a hand. “Hair like new blood, eyes like suns, body as beautiful as an angel’s, but with all the cunning of a demon’s… Oh! Well. I...I’m very sorry about that.” He realized what he’d been saying and shut his mouth. He even clapped his hand over it. He was silent for a moment. “Wears black,” he finished anticlimactically, “and those darkened spectacles.”

Rudy knew exactly who the magician was talking about. “Oh! Yeah! Her! I think I might.” Eager to help someone out in a way that did not risk bodily injury, Rudy dashed off in the direction that he’d seen Nanny go.

He found Nanny sitting under a tree. A circle of dry grass surrounded the tree, expanding by slow, but perceptible, degrees. At the same time, with a rustling, squeezy sound, the tree above her withdrew life from its leaves. Now dead, brown, and curled, the leaves detached from the tree, wavering to the ground. As he came closer to Nanny, Rudy smelled the crispness and tanginess in the air that he usually associated with fall. Sitting with her legs bent and tucked to the side, her arms wrapped about her torso, Nanny seemed to be entrapped in her own private autumn.

Rudy stopped outside the creeping border of dead grass. He wasn’t sure if it was safe for him to step in. “Um...Nanny? I...uh…” No response. “Hello?”

He heard her sigh, even as far away as he was. “Yessssss, child?” Oh no...she was hissing. That meant she was sad again.

“Are you, uh, okay? The grass is kind of, um…”

She glanced about her slowly, as if unsure whether she were still dreaming. “Oh. Yes. I seem to have…” Shaking her head slightly, she lifted her right hand and snapped her fingers. The grass uncrinkled and greened immediately. The dead leaves levitated back onto the tree and assumed their former lively yellowish shade.

“Whoa!” Rudy exclaimed. No doubt about it — either Nanny and the magician were both guardian angels, or they were secret wizards. 

“What did you ssssay?” Somehow Nanny appeared right in front of him, head cocked, tone quick, but not sharp.

Rudy’s eyes widened. She was different now than she had been when he thought she was a guy. Her body seemed to have changed. There were possibly some breasts and hips involved, though Rudy didn’t want to stare long enough to figure that out. 

Most of all, she changed in the way she held herself. When he’d met her the first time, she had a sort of curvy loungingness to her motion. Now she moved straighter, more alertly, faster. There was still something...adrift in her stance, though. He had a feeling that her eyes weren’t focused on him, but on something that he couldn’t even see.

“Are you — Did you find Heck?” Rudy asked.

“I did.”

“Can I, um — ?” Rudy was going to offer to help her, but he didn’t know how.

“She’s in the garden,” Nanny said briskly, though that wasn’t the question Rudy had asked. “She needs sssssome time by herssssself. Now — my partner?”

“Are you okay?” Rudy cringed, not because he was afraid, but because the grief hissed out in Nanny’s every word.

“Yessss.” Nanny stopped herself for a fraction of a second, then said again, more shortly, suppressing that hiss of escaping sadness, “Yes. Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be? —So...my partner?” she repeated.

“He’s, uh, over by the Cakemageddon tent.” Rudy indicated with his thumb over his shoulder. “Wants you to see him.” 

“Thank you.” Nanny brushed past him without another word, her stride long, her trajectory exact. 

Rudy kept pace with her. She looked angry with him, but Rudy thought that she was probably just acting like his mom did when she got upset. When his mom was sad, she seemed mad at other people, but she was mostly mad because she thought she didn’t have time for this nonsense. He didn’t think much of adults who pretended to be angry because they were embarrassed about being sad. “Hey, um, I’m sorry it wasn’t — “ He trailed off. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you were hoping.”

Nanny stopped. She turned her whole body toward Rudy. Her proud, tall posture slumped slightly. “Sssso am I, child,” she said. “Sssso am I.”


	7. The Best Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nanny and Aziraphale meet up, clean up, and fail to meet a hellhound.

When Nanny met up with Aziraphale again, he was trembling with such agitation that bits of smashed cake flaked from his ruined clothes. “Crowley! Crowley, for Heaven’s sake, where have you been? My magic show turned into a food fight disaster; my frock coat is ruined, and I won’t even mention the state of my top hat — “

Nanny didn’t want to tell him, even though he was her partner. There was too much to say. Not even the most shining of her crystalline sentences could beautify the truth of her failure as a mother. At the very least, however, surely her inattentive angel could register who she was and address her correctly. “Crowley?” Nanny hoisted an eyebrow.

Aziraphale did a double take, eyes bulging. “Cr — Nanny? Nanny! Why are you here?”

“Because I have been known to change involuntarily on occasion,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

“Oh. Oh! Involuntarily?” Aziraphale turned his entire body toward her, his right hand wringing around his left like the left was a bobbin and the right the thread. “Then you must have been quite upset! My dear b — My dear girl, are you all right?” He searched her face.

The corners of Nanny’s mouth fell; she felt the sharp yank as her whole face contorted. She pushed her eyebrows down flat, attempting an expression of preoccupied concern. “As much as one can be under the circumstances, I suppose.”

For once, Aziraphale’s lack of observational skills worked in Nanny’s favor. He assumed that she was concerned about the hellhound that had yet to make its foretold arrival. He charged forward with his monologue. “I know! I’ve been looking all over for you because I need to tell you… I think we might run into a spot of trouble with Heck and her hellhound. Before the magic show, I asked her, in a casual way, of course, what she would name a dog if she had one. She completely ignored that question because she wanted to tell me all about the _snake_ that her parents were going to let her buy soon.” On the word _snake,_ Aziraphale’s cutting voice hushed, softened, and even became prayerful. “And she said it in that kind of voice too — _snake —_ worryingly worshipful, even perhaps slightly blasphemous. 

“Apparently, when she and her parents move back to the States, she’s going to get a corn snake. She informed me with great excitement that, even though her snake wasn’t going to be big and black with golden eyes, she was still going to name it _Asssshhhhhhtorethhhhhh._ And that’s exactly how she said it too. She said it was the perfect name because it sounded like it was slithering and hissing. Really, Nanny! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, putting such thoughts in our daughter’s head!” Aziraphale clipped his words, inserting furious little pauses between clusters. He thrust his hands behind his back, attempting to look implacable and rigid, but, a moment later, his fingers clutched and squeezed one another near his breastbone. “She — is — naming her — pet snake — after you!” 

Not now, she isn’t, Nanny thought. “Of...coursssse she is,” she replied rather faintly.

“Hmph!” Aziraphale stuck up his nose and gave it a few indignant twitches. “Anyway, I persisted on the subject of a canine companion — the hellhound, you know. She rolled her eyes and allowed that her parents probably would _do something that stupid_ by gifting her a quadruped. She said that she wouldn’t keep a dog. Instead she’d put an ad in the paper saying _Free to a good home_ and then interrogate potential owners. When she found someone that she was convinced would love the animal, she would give it to them. I said, _Yes, but what would you name it?_

“And that sweet charming child,” said Aziraphale, his voice going up and sharpening, “looks at me with those big blue eyes and that little stubborn frown on her round little face, which means that she is never, ever, ever going to change her mind. She says very impatiently to me, _I already told you. I’m not going to name it anything because I don’t want a dog. I want a snake named Asssshhhhhhhhhhtorethhhhhhh._ And so, my darling debonair demoness, we have one minute till the arrival of a hellhound and an Antichrist who wants to generously, selflessly inflict a creature of infernal terror on the person who she judges most capable of _loving_ it!” He stepped closer to Nanny, launching the phrase at her like a bullet: “Loving it! Loving it! What do you have to say for yourself?”

Nanny bowed her head. “My child…” _I’ve lost my child,_ her heart finished. _Again, this time for good._ _“Our_ child…” she corrected herself. “Our child is not the Antichrisssst.”

“How do you know?” Aziraphale threw up his hands. “And don’t give me some rubbish justification like _maternal instinct!”_

Nanny wanted to say something like the following: _“Because I spent quite some time talking with her this morning, and, despite our best efforts, she is anything but ordinary. She is, in a word, extraordinary. We tried to make her normal, but we couldn’t. Aziraphale, you and I have somehow miraculously nurtured a child made entirely of love, gentleness, and common sense. Even if she were destined to be the Antichrist, she would never fulfill that destiny. As far as she’s concerned, she has much better things to do in life, mostly involving snakes, slugs, snails, and lizards.”_

The perspicacious remarks stood on her tongue, but she was as befuddled as Crowley. Finally a short, inadequate sentence dribbled out: “Because...she’s too good.” _—For me._

“Of course she’s good! She’s our daughter! Why wouldn’t she be? But that doesn’t exempt her from — “

“Oh look!” Nanny blurted, checking Crowley’s watch. “It’s noon, and there’s absolutely no hellhound in sight.”

They stared about them. The (still) fully pitched battle of Cakemageddon raged on, with wailing, gnashing of teeth, and rending of garments. No hellhound, however, was in evidence.

“No,” Aziraphale admitted after a silent minute. “There’s nothing remotely hellhoundish in the vicinity. Oh dear!” He gasped, covering his mouth with his hand. “Thmmph mmphhh umph rmph — “

“Sorry — I can’t understand you with your mouth full,” Nanny said dryly. “What are you saying?”

“I said, _That means that we’re at the wrong place._ Our daughter’s not the Antichrist.”

“Yes. I believe I said something to that effect already.”

“Heck is the wrong child!”

“Noooo!” It came out with more of a wail than Nanny intended. She cleared her throat and tried again. “No, Aziraphale, no, don’t even think ssssssuch a thing! Heck is our daughter, and she’s exxxxtraordinary, and she’s better than I ever hoped. She is, and she always will be, exxxxactly the right child.” 

“Ah. Yes. True.” As Aziraphale nodded, thinking about his daughter, some of the agitation quieted from his body. “I should have rather stated that our adorable child is, of course, perfect as she is and obviously not the Antichrist at all.” 

“Yessss,” said Nanny with a sigh of relief.

Nanny and Aziraphale glanced in the direction of Cakemageddon. The uproar continued, disgorging casualties periodically. Screeches and yells floated toward the sky. Blood was being shed. As she watched the humans lose all hope and control in favor of crushing one another, a thought pierced Nanny’s stricken consciousness. This was exactly the sort of thing that she and Aziraphale were here to stop. She had to recompose herself and return to work.

“Angel...” She mouthed the word instead of speaking it, moving her attention from the fray to Aziraphale. She no longer had her child, but she had him. This person with the flaming soul of a guardian, the flamboyant humor of a clown, the strength of a warrior, the intellect of a professor, the taste of a chef, and the gaiety of a Pride parade full of rainbows — the one that her soul had cleaved to from the moment she met him — this one was hers. 

She had known when he first saw her — when he squirmed, stammering, airborne in beautiful startlement, his eyes widening, as if sparks had just jumped from her eyes to his, coiling down inside him to make their home in his core — that he belonged to her. He would follow her anywhere in the universe and do anything for her, solely because she asked. She possessed him as surely as she possessed her own flesh woven of shadows and her own soul of piercing light. They were together.

If Aziraphale would do anything for Nanny, she would do anything for him. And so, seeing her angel looking like a cake wreck, she snapped her fingers. He resumed his immaculate pre-show state. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale grasped both lapels in delight, brushing his hands down the (smooth, unblemished) cream knap of his frock coat. “Why, thank you, my dear girl! How very kind. And how very refreshing to be wearing again garments free from sugary residue. Hm!” he remarked, looking Nanny up and down. “I daresay you’re rather uncomfortable yourself in your current attire?”

Nanny suddenly realized that she was still in Crowley’s things, none of which fit right. The shirt stretched across her wide shoulders and plunged much too low in the front. The trousers, which were exceptionally tight already on Crowley, adhered even more to her wider pelvic girdle. Her toes curled up at the pointy ends of his boots. Everything was nipping and snipping against her. “I’ve been going about like this?” She regarded her bare and defenseless hands. “Without _gloves?”_

“Not anymore!” said Aziraphale with a smile.

Nanny’s angel performed a miracle and gave her the right clothes. Overbust corset, bloomers (what else did you think she wore, honestly?!], and stockings were first, followed by the blouse, the pencil skirt, the thin leather driving gloves, and the sensible lace-up pumps. The blazer, done up to her throat, covered her blouse, and her round black hat with its tulle veil perched on her hair, now set into careful waves. She imagined some subdued makeup for herself _(subdued_ for her being only 75% bold and dramatic, as opposed to her usual 150%). Then she gave a luxurious sigh and a shake of her head because now she was _back:_ dark and brilliant, neat and right, suited up and pulled together and bound fast. Most of all, she was inviolable, invulnerable, and in control. She headed off for the car, Aziraphale at her side.

Approaching the Bentley, Nanny opened the passenger door and gave Aziraphale a hand as he stepped in and sat in the passenger seat. “Into the car, angel,” she said, smiling at the familiar words.

As Nanny was about to climb in the driver’s seat, a familiar voice said, “Whoa! Do you just like keep changing all the time or something?”

Nanny got in, shut the door, rolled down her window, and gave a small smile to Rudy. “When I want to,” she said. “Or when I must.”

“Nice wheels!” Rudy whistled appreciatively. “So where are you and your husband off to?”

“Oh, I’m not — “ said Aziraphale. “He’s not — She’s not — We’re not — That is, we — “

“We have a hellhound to find,” Nanny interposed smoothly. “Goodbye, child. Don’t forget to quit your job.”

As they pulled away from the party that was not quite from Hell, but definitely Hell-adjacent, Nanny and Aziraphale heard Rudy mutter to himself, “Yeah, definitely guardian angels. No — wait. A guardian _snake_ and a guardian angel.”


	8. Love Dares You to Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nanny gives advice to Aziraphale about his magic show. Aziraphale makes fart jokes. The Bentley tries to enlighten its two occupants.

After a minute or two on the road, Nanny turned to Aziraphale. “I meant to say — your magic act — “

“Look at the road! Not at me! The road!” Aziraphale screamed, one hand bracing against the ceiling, the other fastened to the interior handle of the door.

Nanny rolled her eyes. She was on a rural straightaway under clear (if muggy) skies, without another vehicle or pedestrian for five kilometers in either direction (demonic miracle), so why shouldn’t she cruise along at 140 kilometers an hour? She had superb instincts. It wasn’t like she’d ever had an accident. (Many humans, however, had been known to have accidents in their pants when the Bentley, seemingly barely in its driver’s control, flew by, ignoring all road signs, traffic signals, and several laws of physics.) Anyway, Nanny turned her attention to the road, just because she wanted Aziraphale to listen to her. “I’ve been thinking about your sleight of hand and your prestidigitation. I know you’re frankly not a successful performer — “

“I got laughs!”

“They were laughing at you, Aziraphale, not with you,” Nanny said gently.

“I know — I know!” He twitched his nose a few times, then turned his head so that he was looking out the window. He was shaking his head slightly from side to side with little bobs, a motion that Nanny thought must always accompany an internal monologue like,  _ No, no, no! How could I have ever thought I was a success? I’m a fool!  _ “I just get so flustered! Under the weight of so many expectations, I just...inevitably...stagger — and then fall flat on my face, much to the amusement of spectators.”

“I think there’s a way, though, for you to do magic and to enjoy it without humiliation.”

“Oh. What is it?”

“Be a clown, Aziraphale — a magical clown!” Nanny gestured, fanning her fingers before her grandly.

“Don’t drive with your knees!” 

Nanny replaced her hands on the wheel. “Take that silliness of yours and run with it. Overact. Ham it up. Make the stumbles and tumbles part of your routine.”

Out of the side of her eye, Nanny saw Aziraphale turn toward her. “Are you saying that I should  _ encourage  _ people to laugh at my...my compromised dignity? Perhaps you, my dear lady, have a thick enough skin to endure such slings and arrows, but I am — “

“No no no, angel dear. I’m saying that moments like when you try to flip your hat on your head and it lands upside-down are brilliant. Or when you trip up on  _ Abracadabra _ and burst out laughing at your own jokes. Take the disasters and play them like a _ role.” _

“Oh...then you mean that I should...incorporate my errors? Make them tricks in their own right?” Now the crinkles of Aziraphale’s nose and his various blinks indicated thoughts and calculations leaping through his brain. 

“Yes! Yes!” Without even realizing that she was taking her eyes off the road, Nanny swiveled toward Aziraphale and beamed — literally. The light of pride and happiness streamed through her toward him. “Then, if you plan the mistakes and build them into your show, then they’re not mistakes at all. They’re your persona, your performance. They’re your triumph.”

“Hmmm, I do believe that you’re onto something, Nanny. I noticed at today’s show how acutely the children watched me, pouncing on every single error. If I were to perform as a clueless bumbler, I could draw them to me as they watched intently for my next so-called mistake. I could  _ command _ their attention, not inadvertently, but as a master of my craft!” Aziraphale clapped his hands, thinking of the possibilities.

“It takes one kind of talent to be a successful serious stage magician. Frankly I’m not sure you have that. But it takes another type of gift entirely to be successful while playing an inept magical clown. And that gift, angel — that gift you  _ do _ have.” Nanny put her hand on his shoulder. 

Aziraphale didn’t even yell at her about her driving skills. “And then the laughter would be for my virtuoso performance, not at my personal expense!” His eyes shone.

“Exactly! You have the ability to bring people joy with your sense of wonder and your sense of silliness. Use it!” Nanny gave his shoulder an encouraging pat, then suddenly realized what she had done. Without a reprimand from her partner, she snatched her hand away and gripped the wheel more tightly.

“Don’t forget my fart jokes!” Aziraphale said.

“I was trying to.”

“They’re just as important parts of my repertoire as wonder and silliness. I’m also quite good at them!”

“Don’t remind me,” Nanny muttered, slithering down a bit in the driver’s seat, as if she might become invisible to gas-based humor. 

But no — Aziraphale was scootching from side to side in his seat with increasing glee. Fart jokes were imminent — indeed, inevitable. “What do you call someone who doesn’t fart in public?”

She chewed on the insides of her cheeks of a while, then said with a mostly deadpan face, “Nanny Ashtoreth.”

“A private tutor! —Ah hah, I saw that!” Aziraphale bounced even more. “You smirked. Admit it, Nanny. You smirked.”

“It was a facial tic,” she said in her best Mary Poppins voice of snarky superiority. “Besides, my sense of humor is far better than yours. You know why I don’t tell jokes about intestinal gas?”

“Why?”

“Because they stink!” Nanny cried triumphantly, stomping on the accelerator.

As Aziraphale laughed and Nanny sped up, the Bentley, who despaired of its two most frequent occupants ever getting a clue, blasted over its speakers the most obvious soundtrack it could think of:

_ “Can’t we give ourselves one more chance? _

_ Why can’t we give love now one more chance? _

_... _

_ Cause love’s such an old-fashioned word, _

_ And love dares you to care for _

_ The people on the edge of the night, _

_ And love dares you to change our ways _

_ Of caring about ourselves…” _


End file.
